


Kaleidoscope

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [5]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, So much hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 12:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19830562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: Tommy hasn't told Alfie about the migraines.  He doesn’t want him to know, needs to keep hold of some self-respect, the man already thinks he’s an emotional wreck, no need to prove he’s a physical one too. This secret doesn't want to be kept.





	Kaleidoscope

**Author's Note:**

> Could be read straight after Hiding, but works as a stand alone. Set in Season 3.

Alfie is up early, Tommy is woken by the soft grunting sounds he makes as he bends down to lace up his shoes. He’s clearly trying to be quiet, and failing, which makes Tommy smile. It feels intimate, lying in Alfie’s bed listening to him get ready for the day, just ordinary, domestic, nice. Tommy's slept well, unusually, and his head feels foggy and heavy on the pillow. He opens his eyelids just a crack, he wants to watch Alfie when he doesn’t know he’s being seen – see him fiddling with his rings and his pocket watch – but the morning light feels excruciating against his eyes and he groans as he snaps them shut again quickly. The sound alerts Alfie who looks up from where he’s perched on the edge of his chair says, “well, well, well, if it isn’t sleeping beauty.” Tommy groans again in response, it makes him cringe the way Alfie says things like that.

“Finally wore you out did I?” Alfie continues, walking over to pick up his cane, which is resting against the bedside table. He leans down and places a chaste kiss on Tommy’s forehead.“I’ve never heard you snore before.”

“I don’t snore,” grumbles Tommy.

“Yeah, well, that’s ‘cause you don’t normally sleep, do you? But I can assure you, you do snore, mate.”

Tommy tests opening his eyes again, and has to shield his face with a hand against the brightness. _Why is it so fucking bright in here?_ He pauses for a moment before dragging himself upright, leaning back against his arms as he stretches his neck – it's stiff.Fuck, he’s not used to sleeping that deeply, his head is swimming. He squints over at Alfie and gestures at the window vaguely with one hand,

“Alfie, draw that curtain, s’blinding me,” he rasps as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the rug. Alfie mumbles some insult and proceeds to run his fingers through his wet hair, not really making it look any tidier, just sending water droplets flying everywhere. He’s saying something, rambling Tommy thinks, and he’s definitely not pulling the curtain shut because it’s still too bright in here. There are lights flashing against the back of Tommy’s eyelids and he has to lean down, press his fingers against his temples and try to concentrate. _Fuck_.

He knows what this is, there are shapes floating in his vision and that doesn’t bode well. He sits still for a few moments, hoping it will pass. Maybe he just sat up too quickly...but he knows that’s not true. _Not today. Not in Alfie’s house._ Alfie is still talking he realises, and he has absolutely no idea what he’s saying.

“Tommy. I said 2 o’clock, right? You listenin’ over there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, hoping he doesn’t sound as vague as he feels. They’re meant to be meeting with a broker later, about the jewels. All part of the plan to get their payment out of the Russians. But he can’t think about that now, he just wants Alfie to go so he can deal with this on his own.Just needs an hour to pull himself together. Drink some tea.

“Right, well I have places to be, Thomas, so you’d better get up. It’s my house, not a hotel, right?”

Tommy pushes himself upright, taking a deep breath that he hopes signals intent.“Alfie, I’m up, alright?” he adds irritably, but then he stumbles slightly and has to reach for the headboard to steady himself. “Fucks sake,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose hard and waiting for his balance to steady.

“Bloody hell, is this what you’re like when you’ve actually slept?” Alfie chuckles. He walks over to where Tommy is standing and cups his face with one hand, “or did last night render you unable to walk properly? Maybe I need to go a little easier on you,” he tuts, mockingly. Tommy should be firing some insult at him now, calling him an insufferable bastard, but all of his energy is currently occupied with trying to remain upright and conceal his predicament.

Alfie grips his chin, tilting his face up. He's staring at him from beneath furrowed brows – that intense, silent gaze he uses when he’s really studying someone, trying to figure something out. Tommy is desperate to avoid the scrutiny, he jerks his head out of Alfie's grip and reaches round for his cigarettes, putting one between his lips in what he hopes is a convincing display of normality.

“Hmmm,” Alfie says thoughtfully, like he’s deciding whether he is satisfied.

“Tell you what,” he says, inhaling sharply through his nose, “I’m gonna trust you.I know how long it takes you to get dressed anyway, ain't got all bloody day. You take your time. There’s bread in the kitchen. Just make sure you shut the door properly behind you.See you at 2. Holborn. You’d better bloody be there.”

“Fuck off, Alfie,” he manages. And with that, Alfie turns and leaves.

\-----

Tommy leans heavily on the bathroom sink, looking up at his reflection in the mirror. He makes an effort to relax his face, to lessen the squint that he can see across his eyes, but it’s hard when his whole brain is telling him to shut his eyelids. He knows what this is, the aversion to light, the dizziness, the stiff neck. They’re warning signs that precede the mother-fucker of all _fucking_ headaches. _Migraine_ the doctors told him after the third time it happened, another legacy of the priest’s attack. The question is how long he’s got before it kicks in; sometimes he can function for a whole day before the pounding starts, other times it’s only a couple of hours. All he _does_ know is that once it starts then his is fucked – totally debilitated until it’s all over. And there’s no telling how long it’ll last, hours, a day, two days? He’s been lucky so far, it’s only happened when he’s been at home, or in the hospital; the only people who know are the maids. He plans to keep it that way.

He decides to retreat to the bedroom, close the curtains, shroud himself in darkness and hope that today he’s got hours before the onset. He can't stand Alfie up again, he has to be there at two. If he can just make it through the meeting in Holborn then he can book himself into a hotel and ride it out there, on his own. Alfie doesn’t need to know. God he doesn’t want Alfie to know, he needs to keep hold of some self-respect – the man already thinks he’s an emotional wreck, no need to prove he’s a physical one too. He’s got no opium here, but maybe he can get hold of some tokyo to help him through it, better than nothing. It’s a valid thought, but in the end he can’t bring himself to leave the house and find any. He can’t ring anyone to get it for him either, there’s only Ada in London and she’d be far too suspicious, ask too many questions. So he settles for waiting and hoping. Perhaps it won't be too severe this time. 

By lunchtime he’s managed to get dressed, to drink some tea and even make a few phonecalls from Alfie’s desk, sat in the dark. He figures that fresh air might help, so decides he’ll walk the few miles to Holborn – it’ll take him an hour, but it’s a pretty straight route and it'll give him time to think. He pulls his cap down low over his eyes and sets off towards the river. It’s not actually a particularly bright day, there’s a blanket of grey cloud suspended over London, so it shouldn’t feel like his eyes are being stabbed by needles every time he looks up, and yet that's _exactly_ how it feels. He pulls the cap lower still and concentrates on the pavement. He feels unsteady, his balance altered, like he’s on a boat, but there’s no real pain yet, so he still thinks he can do this.

Unfortunately the vibrations of his feet striking the pavement seem to travel up his spine and reverberate in his skull. He lights a cigarette to distract himself and makes an effort to shorten his stride, relax his gait. He can walk slowly, he’s got the time. Perhaps he should’ve taken a car, he thinks, but there’s a dull nausea now lurking in the background that he knows wouldn’t take kindly to the motion. He tries to breathe it away with deep, regular breaths.It’s not working, he can feel the dull throb starting on the right hand side of his head and he tries to force down the creeping sense of dread. It’s coming on faster than he'd hoped and there's nothing he can do about it.

An hour later he’s found the address Alfie gave him, on Hatton Garden. Alfie’s waiting outside a row of jewellery shops, pocket watch in hand, talking to Ishmael who has clearly driven him there.

“Afternoon Alfie,” he greets.

“Fuckin’ hell mate, you only just got up?” Alfie asks, looking him up and down. “You look like shit.”

“Good to see you too, Alfie,” he replies in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone. Everything’s too loud, but he’s just got to keep his guard up and make it through the next hour. They talk about the business in hand, Tommy questioning how trustworthy this broker is, Alfie taking offence at the insinuation he would work with anyone who wasn't. After a few minutes they’ve agreed their terms, reviewed the strategy. He could swear Alfie’s looking at him strangely, but he doesn’t say anything and Tommy isn’t about to ask. And then Alfie taps his cane on the ground and sets off down the street with purpose. He stops outside a narrow red door tucked in between two jewellery shops. A young girl answers the bell and leads them directly up a flight of stairs to some cramped offices above the shops. Thankfully, the whole place is dimly lit, for which Tommy is exceedingly grateful. They are ushered into a dingy office, lined with safes and boxes and filled with cigar smoke. There is a small desk at the back, with an even smaller man sat behind it. He looks like a weasel and Alfie looks large and powerful next to him. They exchange greetings and Tommy happily lets Alfie take the lead once they are seated.

From the moment the conversation starts in earnest, Tommy is struggling to concentrate through the throbbing pain in his head. The room is too warm and the atmosphere is cloying, as though no one has opened a window in many months. There’s a smell too, the air is thick with it, the cigar smoke mixed with stale bodies and something else unpleasant that he can’t identify. For some reason that smell is taking over his whole mind, hitting the back of his throat and causing the nausea to swell up from his stomach. It’s more than just a headache, the migraine threatens to overwhelm him, his entire body, all of his senses. He can feel sweat beading in his hairline and along his upper lip, his ears are starting to ring. The small man is talking, but Tommy can no longer see his face, there are too many lights flashing in front of him – he can’t see through them. And then, _fuck,_ the broker is saying his name, asking a question,

“Is that right, Mr Shelby?”and he has no fucking idea what’s been said. No _fucking_ idea. He has to get out of this room…it’s too warm and that smell… the pain is being amplified…he can’t see straight. He's scared, fucking scared, because the pain is escalating and he can't stop it, he has no control.

“I’m sorry, please excuse me gentlemen,” he manages to rasp as he gets out of his chair. He moves for the door as quickly as he can without actually running. His head is spinning, the pain is piercing and he has to swallow down the urge to groan out loud. He wants to curl up, to scream, to cover his head, to be sick. _Fuck_ , he’s going to be sick. He can’t think and he can’t walk straight, can’t tell where he’s putting his feet. He needs to lie down, needs to be in the dark, but now there’s a staircase in front of him and it’s steep and narrow and it won’t stay fucking _still_. He can barely see the top step. Somehow he makes it to the bottom, noisily slipping down the last half a dozen treads before he’s opening the door and he’s out on the street. Thank fuck.

His relief at making it outside is forgotten as soon as the sunlight hits him – the pain explodes in the side of his head, in his jaw, his ear, his cheekbone. He stumbles down the street, past several shops to an alleyway on the right, where he leans against the wall and promptly throws his guts up. His stomach heaves repeatedly long after there’s anything left to bring up. When it stops he sinks down onto his heels, utterly crippled by the pain in his head, sweat soaking his back, spit drooling from his mouth. He needs to get out of here, somewhere dark, somewhere he can be on his own. _The Savoy_ , that’s not far from here…but he can’t move, can’t formulate any sort of a plan. All he can think about is the pain, he’s shaking with it, and he gives in to the primal urge to lie down, to curl up. His last thought is that at least the alley is dry.Maybe he can stay here until it passes.

\-----

Why the _fuck_ is it so noisy? There's a car horn and it sounds like a siren in his head — why isn't it stopping? Then there are voices, too many voices, everything jars him. He puts his hands over his ears and closes his eyes, trying to shut out his senses, the outside world. He is closing in on himself, his entire focus dwindling down to a narrow point of fire. It’s like his head is a kaleidoscope, too many colours and lights and sounds, all spinning and twisting and fighting for his attention. He needs to block them out, to focus on the plain white space at the very centre – that point of peace that might offer respite. And he’s concentrating so hard on the space, that central point, but it’s shrinking, no bigger than a pin prick now and it’s going to vanish and leave him with only the pain. He’s panicking, breathing rapidly, he wants to cry but he knows it won't help. Then, without warning the colours erupt again, like fire, saturating his vision, burning his eyes. Someone’s calling his name, telling him to calm down, pulling his hand away from his ear and it’s too loud. Why are they making it louder, making it hurt more? A surge of pain hits him in the stomach like a well aimed punch and he’s retching again, bile splashing onto the ground beneath him.

There are hands everywhere, under his arms, on his chin, around his waist and he feels like he’s on a boat being carried across the sea. His feet are dragging and someone is talking, "just get him the _fuck_ out of here," and it sounds a lot like Alfie, and Tommy wants him, wants to hold on to him, but doesn't want him to see any of this. Alfie wasn’t meant to see. He was meant to make it to a hotel. “Savoy,” he mumbles to whoever is dragging him and he needs to look, to see who’s there, but he can’t open his eyes, he’s been robbed of his senses, left only with the shooting pain, serrated and pulsing.

“Fuckin’ state of him…” he hears, and he kicks out at the hands on him and says it again, “hotel.”

“No one’ll fuckin’ take you, fuckin' state you're in,” he hears, and it’s Alfie’s voice, he’s sure of it now, and his heart sinks in his empty stomach. There’s a wailing noise and he realises it must be coming from him.

And then he’s in a car. Or is it a boat? It’s swaying, his head won’t stay still, there are waves of pain.And there’s Alfie’s voice again, he sounds cross, irritated, but Tommy can’t really think, can’t follow anything, they’re just words, rolling in and out, “…better not puke in here … Does he _look_ all fuckin’ right you imbecile? Just drive the fucking car.”

Then softer, “Christ all _fuckin_ ’ mighty Tommy…can’t leave you alone for a second.”

“Hospital?” the other voice asks and _fuck,_ _no_! He doesn’t ever want to be inside another hospital ever again ... it’ll be too bright and too loud. He has to make them understand.

“No,” he rasps “no hospitals.”

“Alright, alright Tommy,” Alfie says,

“Dark, somewhere dark,” he manages to choke out.

“Alright, dark," Alfie says, "don't panic, s'alright.”

But it’s _not_ alright. It’s agony. _Everything’s_ agony.

\-----

The next thing he knows is that he is lying on the sofa, he's in Alfie’s living room and Alfie is telling him to relax, just fucking relax, and he can’t because his whole body is alive with tension, lit up by pain, and he didn’t want Alfie to see him like this.

“You’re just making it worse,” Alfie says and how would he _fucking_ know anyway? "Tommy, you've got to listen to me, love." But he can't listen, he can't concentrate.

“Stop clenching your jaw, silly boy” Alfie mutters and Tommy wants to yell at him to tell him he’s got _no idea_. The throbbing is relentless and he wants Alfie to fucking _fuck off_ , to leave him to his misery, his shame. But then he doesn’t want him to go, because it’s Alfie and he cares. He told Tommy he cares, didn’t he? There are hands on him, and something warm being pressed to the side of his head and maybe, just maybe it’s helping. He holds onto that hope, chases it.

“Gotta relax, ride this out, nothing else for it.” Alfie’s voice is low, it’s soothing. “It’s gonna pass, love, just gonna take some time,” and Tommy knows that's true but it doesn’t help because he's still got to get through every vile, agonising minute.

Time stretches out and his vision zooms in and out, he's disorientated, can’t focus. There are blankets on him, and his clothes are undone, his shoes gone. He doesn’t remember how that happened, did Alfie undress him? Doesn’t remember how he got here at all. He is sick again, more than once, but each time there is a bowl and a cloth and soft muttered words and he wants to fight the comfort, to tell Alfie to leave him alone, he can do this on his own. But speaking hurts, looking hurts, and he can’t…he doesn’t…he's turned in on himself again....the kaleidoscope...

\-----

It must be hours later that Alfie is holding a cup to his lips, saying “here, drink this.” He has one arm around Tommy’s shoulders, he's lifting his head and it makes him feel like an invalid. He lashes out, tries to brush the cup away, infuriated – he’s not a fucking cripple – but Alfie just mutters and tries again, insisting.“It’s tea, just fucking drink it.”

He puts out a hand and pulls Tommy up, reluctantly, helping him to sit so that he can swallow the liquid. He leans against the back of the sofa and drinks – the tea is hot and it’s sweet and he realises he is too thirsty to battle.

“What time is it?”

“Fuck knows. Two o’clock in the morning or something.”

Twelve fucking hours, Tommy thinks, it can’t last much longer, he can’t take much more. The pain is subsiding, still throbbing but it’s not excruciating. He can open his eyes, he thinks. He’s so fucking tired…

“So, migraine, right?” says Alfie. Tommy just swallows and nods slightly.

“Thought so. Spoke to a good doctor friend of mine when you were screaming and puking your guts up on me earlier. He clued me in.” _Fucking hell, he wasn’t screaming was he? How can Alfie even look at him?_

“So you always had ‘em or this something new?”

“Since the priest,” Tommy mumbles.

“And you were gonna tell me about this _when_ exactly?”

“Never, preferably,” Tommy says, and it’s the truth, ridiculous as it now sounds. There’s a heavy silence while Alfie absorbs the reply.

“Right. Never. I see,” and Tommy can feel the atmosphere shift, that dangerous energy radiating off Alfie’s shoulders.“So you thought…right…it’d just be better if I was totally oblivious? Better to just leg it out of a meeting with a very important contact of mine, leave me to make your apologies? Better to collapse in some fucking _alleyway_ , and deal with everything on your own? Hmmm?”

“Fucks sake Alfie, what do you want me to say?” Tommy whispers. He’s struggling to speak.

“Nearly gave Ishmael a fuckin’ heart attack, d’you know that? He hit the fucking call to prayer to get me out of there.”

 _So that explains the bloody car horn._ The whole thing is just mortifying. Must have been Ishmael carrying him he realises. Who the fuck else saw him? Actually, he doesn’t care, he only cares about Alfie.

“My head’s fucked, alright? But I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“No, right.” Alfie says slowly, “so you didn’t have any warning signs then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know like dislike of bright lights. Feeling dizzy, that sort of thing. Maybe stumbling around in the morning, asking people to close the fucking curtains?”

 _Right, so that’s where this is going._ Trust Alfie not to miss anything. Tommy takes a deep breath. “I slept well,” he says, “it’s not something I’m used to. Thought that’s all it was,” he lies.

“Bollocks, mate,” Alfie spits. “It’s fucking obvious now that I know. Now that I have the _intelligence_. I _knew_ you weren’t right this morning. You fucking knew it too. But you thought it was best not to share that sort of important information with the man you’re sleeping with eh?”

And for some reason that makes Tommy _angry,_ because it’s his head they're talking about, it's his problem.

“Because it’s none of your _fucking_ business,” he yells. “Because I’m a _fucking_ disgrace and because I might just want you to _keep_ sleeping with me!” And J _esus Christ_ he shouldn’t have shouted, it sends a dagger of pain through his skull and he pitches forward, grabbing his head and groaning into his hands.

“Fucking hell, Tommy.” Alfie hesitates, sighing deeply before reaching out for him. He slips down onto his knees in front of the sofa, warm hands gripping Tommy’s upper arms firmly.

“S’alright, just relax, relax.” Tommy is rocking backwards and forwards, riding out the new onslaught of pain. Alfie waits for him to stop, just holding his arms.

“I ain’t gonna stop sleeping with you because you get a few headaches you complete fucking moron,” he sighs. “You shouldn’t have to go through this shit on your own, love.”

“S’fine, Alfie. You should find yourself someone less fucked up, someone who isn’t gonna let you down.” _Shouldn’t have to be my nursemaid_ he wants to add, but he’s too tired, he just lets his head fall between his knees.

At that, Alfie gets up from the floor and takes Tommy by the hands. “You’re coming to bed,” he states. “ _Now_.” And he doesn’t understand why Alfie is still doing this, why he wants him in bed, but he’s got no energy, so he lets himself be pulled up. He lets Alfie guide him up the stairs, into the bathroom. Lets Alfie unbutton his shirt, his trousers, pull off his clothes until he’s standing naked, and the water is running. He wants to fight all the care but he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself. It’s always the same, as the migraine abates he’s left with a bone deep tiredness that weighs him down.

“Right, in there,” Alfie motions and pushes him into the shower. Usually he’d resist the instruction but he can tell Alfie’s tired too and right now it’s nice not having to think. He can’t get into bed like this anyway he realises, and suddenly he’s aware of what a fucking state he's in … he needs to wash off the sweat, the alleyway, the stench of pain and sickness. The water is loud against his heightened senses and he presses both hands to the tiled wall, resting his forehead against it. He feels so feeble, weary, sore. He can't deal with it any more, it's gone on too long, and Alfie has stayed with him through it and he shouldn't' have had to. He focuses on breathing, in and out, on the warm water soothing his head, on ungritting his teeth and willing the pain to recede further. He is so tired that he doesn’t notice when his legs simply give way beneath him, like his body is so preoccupied it has forgotten what it needs to do to keep him upright. He crashes to the floor of the shower stunned and shaking, the pounding in his head returning with a vengeance. He just sits there, hunched over, like a boxer winded by an unexpected blow. Within seconds Alfie is in the shower with him, turning off the water, wrapping him in a towel,

"Shit Tommy ... fucks sake...shouldn't have fucking left you," he's saying. "Sorry love, s'alright. Come on," and it’s too much, it's humiliating, he doesn't want Alfie to be sorry. He’d forgotten he was even there and he doesn’t need an audience for his weakness.

“Alfie, fuck off. M’fine,” he moans. “Please, just _fuck off_ …leave me.” And hesitantly Alfie does leave, retreating from the bathroom without another word.

Tommy just sits there, on the floor of the shower. The water in the tray seeps into the towel that's draped over his shoulders, soaking it, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to be on his own. He’s angry and upset and frustrated … with the priest for leaving him like this … with Alfie for witnessing it …with himself for being such a fucking _liability_. He lets out a howl from deep in his chest and leans against the shower wall, panting through the pain his outburst has resurrected. He sits there for a long time, until he’s stiff and shivering. He’s grateful to Alfie for letting him be. He doesn’t want pity.

Eventually he hauls himself up and into the bedroom. Alfie is in the bed, asleep or at least pretending to be, he can’t tell which. He slips under the blankets and turns on his side, away from Alfie –partly from shame, partly because he can’t place the right side of his head on the pillow. He focuses instead on the mahogany wardrobes on the far side of the room. Moonlit shadows are playing across the polished surface and he realises that his vision is settling, he can see them. His head too is bearable now, it aches, but it’s more like the memory of many hours of pain, rather than fresh torment. He can handle the soreness he thinks with relief. The fear is subsiding, the nausea settled. Alfie shuffles towards him, tentatively.

“How’s the pain, love?” he asks.

 _Love_ Tommy thinks. How can Alfie still call him that when he’s such a fucking disgrace?

“S’fading,” he whispers.

Alfie drapes an arm over his waist and pulls gently against him. “Thank fuck,” he whispers, and he lets out a long slow breath, as though he's been holding it in for a long time. Alfie's relieved, Tommy recognises, and it makes him feel guilty that he's had to witness this.

“More sore than painful,” Tommy adds, feeling he should try to explain.

“You gonna be alright?”

Tommy sighs. “Yeah, in a day or so. I’m gonna be wrecked tomorrow, Alfie. Useless. That’s what happens.”

“Yeah, doctor said. Right, well, just stay here, rest. I’ll look after you.”

Tommy just lies there for the next couple of hours. He listens to Alfie’s breathing slow down and fall into that contented rhythm it has when he’s asleep. The warm arm presses reassuringly around his middle and he allows calm to envelop him. It’s a battle to accept the comfort, but he’s so tired and Alfie is so solid, so warm beside him that he lets himself relax into it. He dozes on and off, before finally falling into a fitful sleep.

\-----

The next morning he is woken by Alfie kissing him softly on each cheekbone, stroking the hair back from his face. He allows his eyes to flutter open and is met with Alfie’s dark gaze, inches from his own. “Yep, still beautiful,” Alfie says, as if he’s just been assessing this fact. “Pain?” he asks, and Tommy shakes his head carefully. “Just tired,” he says, and thank Christ that seems to be true. Before he can say anything else, Alfie is sucking his way down his chest, nipping and biting little marks into his skin. And it’s very nearly too much, every nerve in Tommy’s body feels serrated, an after-effect of the migraine. He winces and Alfie looks up. “Everything hurts, Alfie,” he mumbles, “my skin, everything, i can’t…”

“Sorry, I’ll go gentle, eh? Just relax, I got you,” and he switches to kisses, which he continues to litter down Tommy’s body. It still feels sensitive, but it’s soft, consoling.

Alfie settles himself between Tommy’s thighs, resting on his elbows and looking up to check if this is OK. The truth is Tommy can’t tell yet, everything’s so hypersensitive, but he spreads his legs and groans softly when Alfie takes his soft cock in his mouth. And it should be embarrassing Tommy realises, he’s not even half-hard, his dick as limp and boneless as the rest of his body, but he’s too fragile to protest and Alfie doesn’t seem to mind. He’s sucking very gently, beard grazing against his balls. It doesn’t take long before Tommy’s body responds appropriately and Alfie hums with satisfaction around his expanding girth.

Tommy can’t help but lift his head to watch, Alfie’s eyes are fixed on him already and that face, _fuck_ , he is a sight to behold. Something about the dishevelled hair and those black eyes just _does_ things for Tommy. Even in his debilitated state he feels arousal growing, and he can’t help but buck his hips upwards, wanting more. It’s futile though, a mistake, because Alfie instantly pulls away, letting his cock spring free, wetly. He reaches under Tommy’s thighs to take Tommy’s hands gently in his own,

“Now you are gonna have to stay still for this, love,” Alfie admonishes, “can’t have you wearing yourself out whilst you are recuperating can we?”

Then he lowers his tone, “you are gonna stay _absolutely_ fucking still, understood?” Tommy rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, stretches his neck. It’s that voice Alfie uses when he really means something.

“And when I say still, I fucking _mean_ it. No tensing up, no moving your hands, no moving your hips,” he says calmly. “I am gonna do the work and you are just gonna _lie_ there and _take_ it.” He raises his eyebrows and Tommy realises he is seeking compliance. “Got that?” he adds.

“Yes,” Tommy swallows, something about that tone of voice destroying him, flooding his body with endorphins.

“And if that proves too _difficult_ then I am afraid I’m going to have to stop. Try again another day. When you’re feeling stronger.”

“OK, Alfie, OK,” Tommy groans.

Alfie smirks as he takes him back into his mouth slowly, licking spit up and down the underside with a wide tongue, taking his time, not going fast enough to really do anything. At least it’s not too hard to stay still, he can handle this. But then Alfie turns his attention to the frenulum, teasing that sensitive spot with repeated little flicks, his tongue light and gentle…too gentle. The thing with Alfie is that he’s relentless…always fucking relentless in bed, no matter what he’s doing. He can keep up the same movements for a fucking _age_ when he knows Tommy likes something, maintain his focus and never seem to tire. And as much as it’s hot, it’s fucking _incredible_ , it’s just not _fair_ , he needs more. Now Alfie is just rubbing his tongue in tight little circles over the same spot, occasionally sliding up to tongue the slit more firmly but then just moving back down to that spot beneath his head, resuming the same excruciating licks. And it is skilful, Tommy will give him that, _obnoxiously_ skilful; it feels so good but it takes him precisely _nowhere_. He is getting desperate, noises are catching in his throat, he needs more pressure, more depth. It’s too light, too teasing, and he wants to fucking _whine_ but he swallows it down, because he doesn’t want to give Alfie the satisfaction. He tilts his eyes down to glare at the man between his thighs, who’s clearly fully aware of what he’s doing if the wicked look in his eyes is anything to go by.

Looking down at Alfie like that does absolutely _nothing_ to help, Tommy realises, nothing _at all_. It just makes him want to fuck into Alfie’s mouth, to wipe the smile off his face and he can’t, because Alfie’s fucking _told_ him he can’t, _bastard_. He squeezes Alfie’s hands, wanting to communicate something, to feel him, and then realises he wasn’t supposed to do that either, _fuck_. He wasn’t supposed to move his hands. Alfie lifts himself, letting Tommy’s cock drop heavily against his stomach, and shakes his head slowly, tutting. Tommy curses and drops his head back onto the pillow, concentrating on relaxing every muscle in his body, or at least giving that appearance. He feels like a failure, not sure why it fucking _matters_ that he’s let Alfie down. He knows how this works, if he can just stay still, just fucking _obey_ , then Alfie will give him another chance. He has to...he wouldn't be that cruel. He won’t beg. But after a minute or so he is lying so still, with his eyes closed, he’s fucking _praying_ Alfie accepts the silent apology, he can’t look at him, it just makes it harder. But Alfie isn’t moving, isn’t giving in, and Tommy _does_ beg, he fucking _pleads_ for more, all shadow of shame lost in his lust.

Alfie chuckles, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Beg some more," he hums, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, it is so utterly humiliating, he can't. "Go on, you look so fucking _pretty_ when you beg for me,” he hums.

"Please, Alfie, please," Tommy pants, "pleeeeease," and his insides flood shamefully with lust at the whining tone of his own voice. Finally, Alfie relents, groaning himself, telling Tommy how good he is, praising him for how hard he’s trying, and it makes Tommy blush that he likes that so much, that he needs Alfie’s approval.

“That’s it, just like that Tommy. Let me do the work.” And then he’s sucking him back in, harder this time, taking so much cock into his mouth that the whole length feels hot, taken, owned, right down to the base. _Fuck_ , how does Alfie do that? He’s pinned, deliciously, inside Alfie’s mouth and Alfie is licking now, and sucking, moving his head up and down, taking him in and then letting him back out in a punishing rhythm. The effort of not moving is suddenly magnified a hundred-fold, winding him tighter and tighter; it’s like the energy that he can’t release into bucking his hips is instead seeping down his thighs, over his stomach, through his arms, and he’s _quivering_ with it, every part of his body rendered useless. And then he’s coming undone, pulsing into Alfie’s mouth with a force that belies his apparent weakness…the pent up tension flooding out of him in delicious waves. He reaches his hands down and grabs Alfie’s hair, holding him there, finally bucking into his mouth, taking his pleasure, watching Alfie take it.

Then he’s pulling him upwards, wanting desperately to feel him close, to feel safe. Alfie clambers up the bed like a wolf after prey, wrapping his arms around Tommy, sucking at his neck, kissing his damp face.“Fucking hell, Tommy, you’re fucking beautiful,” he pants, in between kisses, gripping hold of him, “so fucking obedient,” he growls, “so fucking _mine_.”

Tommy wants his lips, is fighting to kiss him, licking his own taste right out of Alfie’s mouth, wrapping his legs around Alfie’s hips, wondering how he ever felt ashamed around this man. And Alfie is kissing him back, hard, rutting into his thigh, and then coming himself, arching into Tommy without so much as a fingertip of touch. It’s the most erotic thing Tommy can ever remember, Alfie grasping onto him, clenching his shoulders, closing his eyes and coming silently in his arms.

They lie there, gripping each other so tightly they’ll leave bruises. It’s like they’re saying with their bodies what they haven’t said with words – the force of their embrace enough for both of them, for now. Eventually Alfie pulls back, strokes Tommy’s hair gently. He looks at him, intently. “If you think some fucking headaches, right, even some fucking _awful_ headaches, are gonna stop me from doing this, from _having_ you, then you are one deluded, fucked up bastard, Tommy.”

And Tommy doesn’t know what to say to that. His body feels sore and heavy – his brain still foggy – but he feels safe. Warm. 

“Alfie? Stop being nice to me.”

“Oh don’t worry, love. Soon as you’re back on your feet I am gonna be very _not_ nice to you. So _not nice_ , you won’t dare keep a secret like that from me again. So _not nice_ you won't sit down for a week,” Alfie hums wickedly. And for reasons that Tommy doesn’t examine too much, that thought makes fire swell within him all over again. 

"That a threat?" he can't resist asking.

"That's a fucking promise, love."

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I love getting feedback. All comments are fuel - and if you want to throw in any suggestions or ideas then I'm all ears! Thank you for reading.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: mintjamsblog


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